


dichotomy

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Breathplay, Desk Sex, Dissociation, Do Not Archive, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Meme, M/M, Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Not technically non-con, Overstimulation, Prompt Fill, Rape/Non-con Elements, but there are enough uncomfortable elements, i decided to tag it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Everyone underestimates Martin.Written for this prompt: https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=51044#cmt51044





	dichotomy

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can blame Kyros and Amber for this one. Thanks guys!

            It’s like there are two of him, Martin thinks. Half of Martin, he supposes. It’s useful, but disconcerting. One of him to handle the appropriate reactions—the moans and grunts and other noises that Peter presumably expects. The other to analyze and catalogue and _watch_. Both of these things are things that need doing, after all.

            Martin’s not quite sure about the way his stomach keeps turning over. Not quite sure which _him_ it belongs to, even. It’s not as if he didn’t have a choice about this. He could quite easily have jerked away when Peter reached out and cupped his chin with one large hand. When Peter whispered into his ear that he was pretty and asked whether he would like to have sex in Elias’s office, Martin could have said _no_. He didn’t have to give that shiver and that minute half-nod. The question was well beyond the bounds of professional decorum, of course, but that’s not the point. He didn’t have to do this.

            Peter’s hand is rough over Martin’s mouth as he fucks him. He’s quite good at it, in fairness; the desk isn’t exactly comfortable, but Peter adjusts his angle until he has sparks flashing in front of Martin’s eyes. He doesn’t seem to have a particular problem with the muffled sounds that make their way past his hand, but he also, at somewhat unpredictable times, seems to enjoy closing off Martin’s nostrils and his airflow as well. Not for more than twenty or thirty seconds at a stretch; Martin’s not in danger of passing out or anything, but it’s—jarring, probably intended to keep him off-balance, and it would be working extremely well if it weren’t for the weird dissociative split Martin’s dealing with. Or…part of Martin is dealing with.

            The cataloguing part watches the way Peter’s eyes turn up at the corners when tears well up in the corners of the eyes of his partner, well over, and trickle down his cheeks. It notes the way Peter fucks him harder, at that, the way his hand clenches around Martin’s thigh, and the way he loses his rhythm a little, as if he’s overwhelmed at the way Martin’s eyes are going blank, lost somewhere between fear and pleasure. It’s not surprising to Martin that Peter is a sadist; it’s a little surprising to him to realize he’s never been fucked by a proper sadist before. Or maybe it’s just a different kind of sadism, ‘proper’ seems a bit too much of a judgment, though whether on Peter or Martin’s previous sexual partners, he’s not sure.

            Peter doesn’t touch Martin’s cock at all, although there’s a fair bit of stimulation from the fact it’s slapping against both their stomachs. It turns out it’s enough, anyway, because the next time Peter lets him take a gasping breath in, Martin comes all over himself, twitching and overstimulated. Peter laughs, sounding delighted, and then pushes Martin down until he’s flat on his back, hooks his knees over Peter’s shoulders, and folds him practically in half as he continues to thrust. Despite how pliant Martin is now, it still hurts a little, although that goes away as he’s swallowed by a sudden strangely blissful feeling of loneliness.

            The other part of him continues to watch the way Peter’s not looking at Martin anymore, the way he’s staring at something—or someone—in the middle distance as he fucks him, and the way he does lose his carefully cultivated control when he climaxes, his hands gripping Martin’s shoulders painfully, cock twitching deep inside him.

            He pulls out, slips the condom off and drops it in the rubbish bin, and then, before Martin can get up or really move more than an abortive attempt to roll onto his side, he’s back between Martin’s legs. “Oh, come now, I’m not going to leave you like that,” he says brightly, and Martin realizes he’s half-hard again already. He whimpers as Peter’s large hand envelops his cock. It hurts, it’s too much, too overwhelming, but he wants it all the same.

            He floats away a little as Peter jerks him, bucking his hips mindlessly, chasing the blankness of thought and the sweet sensation, and he’s coming again almost before he realizes it, the orgasm like nothing so much as a sheer line of pain drawn from his sternum to between his legs, and the release from the release leaves him giddy and panting with exhaustion and endorphins.

            Peter smiles jovially, leans forward over Martin’s sweat-soaked form, and murmurs in his ear, “Do you think he enjoyed the show?”

            It’s the part of Martin that’s just been fucked silly that saves him. He’s too boneless and warm to react quickly, so he just blinks for a long second, and that’s enough time to hold down any facial motion that might give them away. Instead, after a moment he just manages a puzzled laugh, pushing a hand through sweat-soaked hair. “Who?” he asks.

            Peter gives him a long look that turns, shortly, into the sort of kind underestimation that Martin finds both irritating and useful in equal measure, then runs a large hand across Martin’s temple, brushes his hair out of his eyes, and kisses his forehead. “Never mind,” he says, with a grin that’s not quite directed at Martin anymore. “Just my little joke.”

~

            Martin goes home on the tube, which is thankfully quite empty. The irony of a desire for solitude in the aftermath of an encounter with one of the Lukases isn’t lost on him, but he’s still grateful that he doesn’t really have to interact with anyone. He stumbles up to his flat, where he shuts the door behind him, and, for some reason, throws the deadbolt. Then he goes into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa.

            When he’s finished making the tea, he wraps himself up in a rug, and sits down in front of the fire. His thighs are still sticky, and he’s trembling a little. He wants to have a shower, and he promises himself he will—a hot one, scalding, and he’ll rub himself down with a pumice stone until his thighs are raw and maybe bleeding, and he’ll feel better. But for now, he’s tired and boneless; his physical reaction to the sex is, more than anything else, profound exhaustion. And maybe he doesn’t want to be in the shower when he does what he’s about to do.

            It’s still difficult for him; he’s not Jon, and he’s not Elias, and he hasn’t had a lot of practice. And it’s not as if Martin’s ever had much faith in his abilities, but he’s got a lot of determination, and he supposes that must count for something. Focusing in on the tickling pull in the center of his forehead, he imagines the sensation of opening a heavy eyelid, and then he _feels_ it, and then he’s looking _back_ at the source of the prickling gaze that’s been following him for the better part of the past few hours.

            Elias looks as tired as Martin feels. He’s sat cross-legged on a thin cot, leaning back against the wall, and there are huge dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Ah,” he says, as Martin meets his eyes. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

            “Peter Lukas thinks I’m useless,” Martin tells him in as cheerful a tone of voice as he can manage, although his hands aren’t quite steady around the mug of tea.

            “Yes,” Elias agrees dryly. “I saw.”

            “He’s quite a good lay,” Martin continues, the brightness and cheer turning tinny and maybe a touch bitter.

            “I am aware.” And _that_ response, maybe not wholly unexpected, is a little bit jarring, and a lot more hurtful than Martin expected.

            “Anything else you need me to do?” he asks. “Should put it on my to-do calendar. Just checked off ‘seduce my boss,’ after ‘get my former boss arrested to avoid him getting stabbed through the throat by a disgruntled employee’. Should I be asking for a bonus, actually, when you get back? All of this is a bit above and beyond, don’t you think?”

            Elias’s breathing changes just slightly, a little harsher, a little faster. “I am sorry, Martin,” he says. “I did not expect Peter’s—”

            “I know,” Martin cuts him off. “It’s not your fault. Not really. I—” he chokes up a little. “I didn’t want to?” he says, all in a rush. “I really didn’t _want_ to, but it’s not like either of you forced me, honestly. It’s—I don’t know why it feels the way it does. Like—”

            “It feels like a violation because it _was_ a violation,” Elias tells him sharply. “Do you think he didn’t know he was testing your loyalty? Do you truly think that if you had said no you would have walked out unscathed?”

            The truth of it rings in Martin’s ears, and he tugs the blankets about him closer and sips at the tea. “It’s not…” he trails off. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels like a betrayal—you and Jon and—I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

            “I did not intend to put you in this position,” Elias says. “I cannot deny that I think you have done very well to get yourself to where you are, but—I did not intend this. I did not offer you up as a sacrifice to the Lonely, Martin. You are too useful to our master for that.”

            It’s funny, how warm Martin feels to be told he’s _useful_. If Elias is still manipulating him, well, maybe he’s not even sure if he cares. And honestly, it’s not Elias’s style to manipulate someone with lies, so why does it even matter? “What about you?” he says, quietly. “Am I useful to you?”

            “Yes,” Elias tells him gravely. “Always, Martin.”

            “Anyways,” Martin says. “I—there’s something you need to know.”

            “Oh?”

            “I chose,” Martin says into the teacup. “I—I _chose_ to help you. Dunno about informed, but I know what you think about, um, the general, um, availability of information, anyway. So. Okay?”

            And he can tell from the slight change in Elias’s breathing that he’s surprised him, maybe even shocked him. “Thank you, Martin,” he murmurs. “That’s good to know.”


End file.
